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“A canvas.”He releases me, beginning a slow pace around the stage. “You ever stood on a stage before, Dana?”
“Me? No.” I chuckle awkwardly at the mere thought of it. “No. I’m not… no.”
“I figured. See, the rest of your classmates are theatre kids through and through. They livethis, they breathethis, but you don’t. So, I’m not at all surprised to find out that you feel the way you do.”
“You think I should drop, then?” I ask.
“Oh, no.” He shakes his head. “No. I wouldn’t be much of a teacher if I did. Quite the contrary, Ms. Kirby. I think you should stay.”
“Why?”
“Because twenty-some-odd-years ago, a young freshman prospective playwright stood on the exact spot you are now, and he asked himself the same questions you’re asking yourself.” A sly smile. “What if I can’t come up with anything? What if I never finish? What if it’s not good? What if I’mnot good enough?”
I smirk. “Hard to believe you were ever so unconfident.”
“I know, but it’s true.” He shrugs. “I grew up going to theatre camp and performing in high school productions of whatever cheap, sanitized play for kids my Podunk little Midwestern town could afford to put on, but I’d never written anything before. I’d had ideas, sure, but I’d never put them down on paper and I sure as hell didn’t give them structure and purpose and life.” He takes a moment, chewing his cheek as he looks at me. “But I knew I had to try. Because... what if I couldcome up with something? What if I actually finished it? What if it’s not only good, but great? I wouldn’t know until I did it.”
“And then you wrotea masterpiece, huh?”
“No, it was shit. Pure shit.” He grins as I laugh. “The story was a mess, the characters were inconsistent, and the theme was... non-existent. But that’s not the point. The point is, I finished it. I wrote my first play — a one-act, just like your assignment. When I sat down to write the next one, I knew more. I knew better.And it was better.Dare to suck, Ms. Kirby. Give yourself permission to write badly because that’s how we learn to write well.”
I nod, deep in thought. “But did you have to turn in your first play to be performed in front of hundreds of people?” I ask, the idea still leaving me in a cold sweat.
Grant tilts his head. “No, I didn’t. But I’ll make you a deal. You stay in my class this semester, you finish your first play, and...” he hesitates, clearly uncomfortable with the idea in his head, “I’ll submit my first play to be performed along with everyone else’s.”
I raise a brow. “Really?”
“Really.”
“You’d do that?”
“Of course.” He takes a few steps closer. “Dana, I will not force you to stay if you really don’t feel right about it. If this is a bad fit for you, then that’s what it is. But I’ve known you for a very long time. We’re talking diapers here, sweetie.”
I chortle. “Yeah.”
“I know you. I know your family. And I truly think a writer with your unique perspective could really thrive here... with the right push.”
I nod, his enthusiasm just contagious enough to penetrate through my shell of fear and doubt. “Well, consider me sufficiently pushed.”
He grins. “Excellent. Now, as I was saying...”He resumes his pacing along the front of the stage. “Sculptors have a lump of clay. Novelists and screenwriters have the blank page. Playwrights, too, I suppose, but they don’t get this.”
He opens his arms, gesturing to the stage. The lights. The curtains. The canvas.
“They don’t get to stand center stage and…” He takes an enthusiastic breath, filling his lungs, the sound gently echoing toward the back row. “To this day, whenever I write a new play, this is where I go.” He taps his foot twice. “Not always this specific auditorium, of course, but... I listen and smell and imagine. All before I put one idea down on paper. Now, I ask you again, Dana.” He plants himself beside me, his arm coming back to rest on my shoulders. “What do you see?”
I take a breath; the question affecting me more than expected. “I still don’t know, but…” I let my eyes wander around for a moment. “I can probably think of something.”
“And if you still can’t, that’s fine. Just re-tell Beauty and the Beast,” he says.
“Beauty and the Beast?”
“Or any fairytale, really. It’s easy to write, people love it, and the theatre kids get a real kick out of the costumes. Everybody wins.”
I laugh. “Okay.”
He gives my shoulder a squeeze. “You feel better, kiddo?”
“Yeah.” I smile at him. “Thank you, Uncle Grant.”
